


That Type Of Sunday

by michaelinthebathroom



Category: Openly Straight Series - Bill Konigsberg
Genre: Angst, Ben is sad, Boys In Love, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Therapy, bed sharing, ben has a tiny bit of daddy issues, mental health, rafe is just trying to help, supportive boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelinthebathroom/pseuds/michaelinthebathroom
Summary: Ben realizes that maybe everything that happened last year affected him more than he thought. Rafe helps the best he can.EDIT: I realized this was a first person piece of crap, so I changed it to third person at four in the morning. It’s probably bad, I don’t care. Thank you!
Relationships: Ben Carver/Rafe Goldberg, Benjamin Carver/Seamus Rafael Goldberg
Kudos: 7





	That Type Of Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This is some of my first work so thank you so much for reading it! 
> 
> If this sucks let me know, I’m trying my best and would love feedback, even if it’s just “this is dumpster trash”.

Rafe was laying in my bed.

No, not in that way. Just in a splayed position, being the lazy, heavily sweatered boy that he was.

It was the second Sunday of November, the kind of Sunday where it feels so odd that you have to go to school tomorrow. That you have to get UP and LEARN. It seemed unusual because learning was sometimes difficult, and second Sundays in November were not made for any kind of difficulty.

Rafe was curled up under my stomach, my arms around him and my left leg on top of his. All we were doing was lazing about, but I still felt worthwhile. Productive. Like we as a whole had just defeated something.

And in a way, we had.

When I left Rafe’s house after that blissful week, I returned home. It went as expected. My mom and brother were just relieved that I was back, but my dad still obviously had some precautions. He had just given me a slight nod and grunted: “The coop needs some cleaning”. I was glad that everything had settled with him because some other stuff was going on with me. Almost getting kicked out of school did not benefit my mental health.

Four days after Christmas was when they started.

My first panic attack happened in the bathroom. My suspension wasn't up yet, so I was living at home. I missed Rafe, my dad was yelling at my brother for being on his phone, and I had been trying to figure out this calculus problem that I had missed review for.

I was just kind of sitting there on my bed and this feeling of sudden doom mixed in with a little nausea took over me. I became sort of disoriented but feeling like I had a big weight pressing to my chest, kind of like the ones we lift in soccer.

I went to the bathroom and thought I was dying.

I remember thinking ‘This is it. This will be the last sight I see. The duck wallpaper. The toothbrushes. The empty blue cup that’s been sitting there meaning to be moved since 2014.’

After it was over, dying seemed like an inconceivable luxury.

The next came soon after that, also located in a bathroom. The cramped space filled with insipid memorabilia soon became a place that was haunted by suppression.

When I returned to Natick, Rafe and I spent all able time together. We learned everything about each other. Sleep schedules. Phone call times. Each other’s mannerisms. So well that when I jumped to the bathroom when I began to feel that pressure and didn't produce a plausible (or decipherable) enough excuse, he knew something was up.

I ran to the trusty dusty second-to-last stall and locked the door. I heard Rafe run in and take a second to find my location.

“Rafe I’m fine, just, uhhh, uh, um ya know….BURFRIEDOS!” I said, progressively getting louder with my words. 

After pounding for a couple of seconds and realizing I wouldn’t comply, Rafe crawled under the stall with as much grace as a petrified boyfriend could muster. 

He took one look at me and started crying. 

We just held each other, both wishing to stop this and smile, pretending it never happened.

But it had and we should deal with it like the problem it was, Rafe said.

He made me go see the therapist here at Natick, Ms. Manakala. The first few visits were pretty awkward, but I soon opened up to her, slowly spilling more about my life than I ever had before.

Turns out when you’re not bitching, things can be better than coveted.

But now wasn't the time to go to therapy.

Now was not the time to cry in a pee-stained bathroom school.

Now was not the time to yell about deep-fried burritos to the person you love. 

Now was the time to hold Rafe on a quiet Sunday in November filled with feelings.

Good feelings.

Happy feelings.


End file.
